


(don't wanna be) without

by Hinterlands



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff, Mild Angst, this wasn't meant to be emotional what am i doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 19:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9138250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: For the most part, Angela and Fareeha move in overlapping circles throughout the day.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agenthill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/gifts).



For the most part, Angela and Fareeha move in overlapping circles throughout the day; occasionally intersecting, brushing against one another, offering smiles in passing, a gentle touch upon the shoulder and upper arm, but ultimately separating again, continuing on to separate destinations and duties. Wading through ranks of ill and injured to slit and suture and minister, to forge miracles from clouds of microscopic machinery; returning to the rote circuit of patrol, of training, to keep the senses sharp, the body taut, the reflexes ever-ready, simulations aided by battered battle-bots that should have seen retirement a decade past, chassis permanently marked by soot and pocked with bulletholes, old wounds fringed with exposed and popping circuitry.

(Quietly, Angela favors the days where she does not return to their shared space until late and long into the night, grainy-eyed with exhaustion; no matter how light her tread, or how deeply asleep Fareeha may appear, what is visible of her shoulder will tense, her head lifted away from the pillow, one hand braced against the bedspread, alert always, though gradually the sight of Angela—only Angela, smiling thinly, tiredly—will leach the latent tension from her, and, inevitably, she will sit up, and open her arms to the other woman wordlessly, a knowing smile touching her lips in kind.)

And despite the urge to retreat towards the promise of a warm shower, to divest herself of her uniform, Angela will relent, and move forward to set one knee upon the bed as Fareeha shifts towards the edge of it, leaning forward to press her forehead to Fareeha’s. Fareeha’s arms will twine about her neck, and—still clumsy with the last clinging remnants of sleep, however surreptitiously—she will bump her nose against Angela’s in her eager venture for the briefest and chastest of kisses, a reassurance that she is not still lost in slumber.

(There is a warmth in these simple gestures that still, somehow, catches Angela up short, a gravity to them that threatens to pluck the breath from her lungs; Fareeha’s eyes on hers, aglow with uncomplicated adoration, the slant of her mouth against Angela’s, her voice, quiet and husky, catching on an _I missed you_ so soft that Angela must strain to hear.)

Angela is aware that, slowly but surely, she is being drawn up onto the bed, further into the circle of Fareeha’s arms as they shift from her neck to her waist; this, too, is part of the accustomed routine, and Angela feigns exasperation with a soft exhalation, tapping a finger against Fareeha’s chest. “You are _not_ as stealthy as you like to think.”

“Strange,” Fareeha replies, the faintest sliver of a grin crossing her face. “I don’t think I’m stealthy in the least.”

Angela finds that she has no ready response, and so she merely leans up, one hand curved over the sure ridge of Fareeha’s shoulder, and kisses her firmly. That smile hardly slips, though it is tempered, now, one of Fareeha’s hands coming to rest at her waist, the other braced back against the mattress. This, Angela thinks, may be the purest form of contentment that exists.

_Beat_ and shift and a break to gather breath, Fareeha's head angled away, slightly, a warmth suffusing her cheeks, the pillar of her throat, where Angela's face next comes to rest, snug against the hollow where her pulse thrums on, steady and strong. A soft, tremulous exhalation, a venting of breath and fear alike, and Fareeha, with a gradual sort of understanding, elects to remain silent, and allow whatever playful admonishment regarding the tickling trickle of Angela's breath that now rests upon her tongue to simply fizzle out.

(It seems as though they have always inhabited this moment, suspended in dread, awaiting the catharsis of simple contact; _I may return one day to find you gone._ To speak these words--to give them freely to the air and allow them to fill the slightest of spaces between them--would be to lend them power, to render them true, to offer credence to a simple and elemental terror. They know the risks of the lives and professions they have chosen to pursue, have always known them, but that knowledge does not weigh less heavily upon them even now, even with the idle, passive acceptance they believe they have come to. A concession to heaviness, if only briefly; refusing to acknowledge what is obvious and true will not make it any less, and breath will come easier once the initial pressure--the enormity of it all--is alleviated.)

Levity returns in fitful snatches of movement, Fareeha's face resting against the pale tangle of her hair despite the astringent antiseptic reek that clings to it still. Angela shifts against her, eventually, lips grazing the pulse-point of Fareeha's throat. "I should really make an effort to--get cleaned up." If there is a hitch in her voice, Fareeha is gracious enough to pretend she has not noticed it; she merely lifts her face from the crown of Angela's skull, peering down at her beseechingly. "I won't try to _stop_ you, but surely that could wait until morning..."

"Oh, I _suppose_." The faintest of smiles touches her lips; this is as obvious an attempt to return to some fragile equilibrium as any, and Angela is awash in gratitude nonetheless. Fareeha's arm tightens about her waist surreptitiously, holding Angela firm against the wall of her abdomen, and says, again, a breathy admission: _I missed you._ Angela curls her fingers against the swell of Fareeha's tricep, leans up so that their lips just barely brush, and, voice thick, answers in kind; _I love you._

(The kiss that follows--Fareeha leaning in to initiate, this time, her mouth soft, a tenderness to it that turns Angela's muscles to water--is imbued with a rawness that Angela finds she's carried with her throughout the long months behind them, some persistent ache centered in the core of her; before this--before _Fareeha_ \--the concern was constant but manageable,, general, integral to her position, spread thin amongst those in her care, each carrying a kernel of it with them as they roved and warred. Things rarely remain the same forever--Angela knows this as well as most, and perhaps even better--but she finds herself with fewer fellows among whom to distribute her worry, her hope, and care, and finds now--has found, since this precious thing between them materialized--that Fareeha--courageous, loyal Fareeha--is first, last, and central among them.

The worry is not so severe as to provide immediate distraction as she goes about her work, but it is more noticeable now than it has ever been, perhaps exacerbated by the knowledge that whatever peace they've stumbled into is impermanent, as sincerely as she wishes to believe otherwise; this is how it has always been, and likely will always be--conflict arising in cycles, each one providing opportunities to save lives and to lose them.

_This is what love does_ , Angela thinks, acutely aware of the solidity of Fareeha's arms around her, fervently grateful to be anchored here by them, though only half-aware now that Fareeha has broken the kiss, is watching her with measured concern.)

A soft exhalation as Fareeha shifts in place, a gentle jostle to garner Angela's attention; she does not question the cause of this sudden melancholy--she is familiar with the ways in which Angela can become mired in herself, after all, and knows well that asking will only result in some skillful dodge of the question or another; instead, she merely presses her forehead to Angela's, the smallest of smiles playing at her lips, and says, simply: "You think too much."

That startles a sudden, cracked spate of laughter from Angela, at least, and she makes no protest; Fareeha has her dead to rights, after all, though some small part of her is displeased by how _apparent_ her distress must be; her answering smile is pitifully thin, though Fareeha merely keeps those steadying arms around her, and allows the silence to stretch on, eyes fixed on Angela's.

(She is, after all, intimately familiar with this breed of fear--the twinge of uncertainty and stuttering pulse elicited by the fleeting thought of being _left behind,_ of the impermanence of life and of being, that the strength of one's love will give way to more agony in the event of some chaotic, unforeseen circumstance than may ever be worth it, that some things--lives, bonds--simply cannot be repaired, cannot be resuscitated.

Fareeha has borne it, with fellows and with family, borne grief, and borne seething, directionless anger, borne this elemental, debilitating fear, and at times has lapsed into the belief that life is safer--not as full, but fullness a necessary sacrifice--with nothing so precious to lose. Embraced coldness, spurned camaraderie, and believed herself safe in professional distance, in what amounted to facelessness, giving nothing and expecting nothing in return. In this, she--and consequently, everyone around her, in the event that something, too, should befall her--was rendered untouchable.

She has learned, of course, with time, and with the harshest of lessons, that fear is unavoidable, that tragedy is not governed by the strength of one's connections, that to love a mother or a squadmate is not to condemn them to some inevitable tragedy, that distancing herself for fear that the pain should be too great to bear did not render the pain unable to be felt, did not diminish the fear, only lent it the opportunity to lurk at the edges of consciousness, prepared to strike, to gradually seep.

Fareeha, in falling into this strange, wonderful rhythm with Angela, has given herself permission to love wholly and without reticence, to embrace fear as it comes, to move with whatever pain may result. to offer herself fully. And, so far, despite the terror, the knowledge that she has lent herself something else dear for life to take and to shred, this has given her no cause to regret.)

It is Angela's turn to observe her with a modicum of curiousity and mingled concern, and Fareeha merely smiles, slips an arm from around her waist to cup her cheek, and tries to communicate with her eyes alone; _we return to each other, promise to return, as best we can, for as long as we can. That is all we can do._

What she does say is: "I love you." With tenderness, with abandon, and a final kiss, mouth slanted against Angela's, firm and raw, before she begins to recline, gently tugging the other woman down with her. "And I think that we could both use some rest."

"Yes," Angela replies, and, belatedly, her head coming to rest against the sure ridge of Fareeha's shoulder, eyelids already heavy, on the cusp of sliding shut; "I love you too."

(Angela, as Fareeha goes slack against her, as slumber reaches to claim her, to enfold her, believes that she may stand corrected; _this_ , as it is, undercurrent of fear and all, may be the purest form of contentment to exist.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (belated, as ever) gift for one rory agenthill, who continues to be one of the best and most solid friends I've ever had; she prompted with me with some nonsexual kissing and cuddling ages ago, and, of course, I couldn't resist the opportunity to add some emotional strife.
> 
> Depression and family turmoil has been kicking my ass fairly soundly as of late, but you can expect much more from me (in regards to Dragon Age, Overwatch, and beyond) in 2017, and hopefully further. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your support throughout this year, and thank you for reading. 
> 
> As ever, I hope you've enjoyed.
> 
> Crossposted to tumblr [here.](http://cassandrapentagay.tumblr.com/post/155225584866/dont-wanna-be-without)
> 
> (Title is from One Direction's "Moments.")


End file.
